


The Bucket List

by sakamoon (Sakamoon)



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Multi, One Shot, introspective, unspecified illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakamoon/pseuds/sakamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right now, in the early dawn light, he looks so peaceful that Aster can almost forget how cold the boy has become, can almost ignore the way his ribs show against his skin as Jack goes days without being able to stomach food. He can almost forget that the boy is slated to die any day now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bucket List

Aster wakes up early and alert, but he doesn’t move from his spot in the bed. Instead, he lightly extends an arm around the boy curled into his side, careful not to jostle him. Though always exhausted, it isn’t often these days that Jack gets a restful sleep, interrupted as it usually is by fever pitches or vomiting fits. Right now, in the early dawn light, he looks so peaceful that Aster can almost forget how cold the boy has become, can almost ignore the way his ribs show against his skin as Jack goes days without being able to stomach food. He can almost forget that the boy is slated to die any day now. 

Aster tightens his grip just a fraction. Jack had explained that when the doctors diagnosed him a year ago, they’d theorized he had six months. He’s managed to survive nearly double that time, but it isn’t enough. They’ve only known each other for less than a year now, and Aster doesn’t want to let go. He is still getting used to the boy’s stupid, endearing little quirks, like how he always leaves little sticky notes everywhere full of little sayings to help cheer everyone up. Not that he does that anymore, being that his vision, after a valiant struggle, finally gave out about a week prior.

If someone had asked Edward Aster Mund, lower middle-class New Yorker artist, a year ago what he thought his future would be like, he never would have guessed he’d have found a lover in a gregarious young man who lived enough for ten people, and he especially never would have figured he’d be watching as the body that housed such a beautiful soul slowly decayed in front of his eyes.

Aster tries to find a distraction from his bittersweet-at-best thoughts by looking out the window, only to widen his eyes in shock at what he sees. Large white flakes fall from the sky and cover the ground. It only takes a moment of deliberation before Aster decides that Jack would kill him if he let the boy sleep through this. The older turns and ever so gently shakes the younger’s shoulder.

“Jack. Jackie,” He whispers, “Wake up. I ‘ave ta show ya somethin’,”

Jack, ever the slow waker, groans in response before slowly blinking his eyes open. They’d once been a warm brown, like Aster’s favorite chocolate. Now they are a milky blue-white.

“Bunny?” He responds just as quietly, “What’s up?”

“Come on, Jackie,” Bunny shimmies out of bed and grabs his boyfriend’s hand to encourage the same, “I’ve got a surprise for ya,”

That is all it takes to coax the ever curious Jack out of bed, and two donned jackets, hastily slipped on tennis shoes, and a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers later, Aster is half supporting, half leading Jack to the front door.

“Seriously, Bunny, what’s going on?” Jack asks in a mixture of amusement and annoyance. 

“Just a tic. We’re almost there,” Aster replies as he opens the door and guides Jack to the porch.

“Outside? We’re going outside? What’s outsi—” Jack stops mid word, his eyes wide as the first flakes of snow fall on his skin. He looks up to the sky, though he can’t possibly see it, and murmurs in awe, “It’s snowing.”

Aster has never been a big fan of snow, but watching the slow, beatific grin spread on Jack face as he slowly raises one hand skyward, he figures it isn’t so bad after all. When was the last time he’d seen Jack smile so care-freely?

“I made it,” Jack whispers to himself, “I actually made it,”

Aster clenches his jaw against the righteous fury that threatens to spill out of him at the pure disbelief in his tone. He isn’t angry at Jack though. He wants to tear the universe a new one, or maybe knock God’s lights out. Or cuss out fate. Or something. He wants to make whatever is responsible for putting this kid through so much pay. Jack shouldn’t have to “make it” to the first snowfall of winter. He shouldn’t have to struggle with every step he takes into the snow. He should be playing, throwing hastily formed snowballs at every random passerby. He should be going to college and earning a future. Someone like him deserves _at least_ the joys of young adulthood: taking life for granted, spending nights out friends, out-eating an army, and complaining about mundane things.

Yet here Jack is, slowly tugging Aster forward, savoring each snowflake, each shaky, indrawn breath, like it is a precious gift. Jack, pale-skinned, light-framed Jack Frost, in this moment, is much like the snowflakes he catches on his tongue. Beautiful, unique, and evanescent. He comes, he brings a spark of joy into the lives he touches, and then he melts all-too-quickly. Aster wants to rage against the inevitable, but Jack seems to accept it with the same easy grace with which he does everything, and Aster doesn’t want to ruin that. So, instead, he steps in time with Jack, making sure the boy doesn’t slip as they walk down the porch steps and onto the lawn.

More confident now that they are on flat ground, Jack steps away from Aster and spins in a slow circle, arms spread wide as he basks in the silent snowfall. Bunny stops him when the boy kneels down and tries to pick up some snow with his bare hands. He may not be able to feel the cold any more, but Aster can see his fingertips turning blue from it, and he can’t let the boy get any sicker than he already is.

Jack objects playfully, halfheartedly, but anyone could see that he is already tired and he lets Aster guide him back toward the steps where they sit, protected by the porch but able to reach out and touch the snow if they want.

They are given only a moment of peaceful quiet before the front door slams open revealing the grumpy face of their in-home nurse, Pitch Black. He’s in a thick, black robe as he trudges out, holding two steaming cups in one hand and a thick blanket in the other.

“I don’t get how you expect me to do my job when you’re so insistent on letting yourself freeze to death,” He murmurs sharply even as he ever so gently places one mug in Jack’s grasp and drapes the blanket over the boy’s shoulder.

Far beyond used to Pitch’s biting nature by this point, Jack just shrugs with a grin and replies, “Well, you seem to be doing a good enough job so far. Thanks, Pitch,” before taking a sip of the hot chocolate and sighing happily.

The nurse just grumbles at the response, standing back up. He sips at the other drink and Aster interjects, “Oy! What about me?”

Pitch side-eyes him, purposefully taking a long, infuriating draught from his mug before replying, “What about you? You’re perfectly capable of getting your own drink,” With that, the resident nurse turns back toward the door with a dismissing wave, saying, “And since I’m not insane, I’m going to get out of this cold before I loose my nose. I suggest you two don’t dawdle too long either,”

“Ta, mate,” Aster says sarcastically just as the other slams the front door shut, “Right bloomin’ arse, that one is,” he mumbles. Jack laughs softly and leans his head against Aster’s shoulder.

“He’s not so bad,” The boy refutes, “Makes a great cup of coco, anyway,” He holds the drink out in silent offering, and Aster gratefully accepts, wrapping his fingers over the boy’s as he brings the cup to his mouth to drink. The drink is mild, as is necessary for Jack thee days, and laced with a faintly minty flavor that feels cleansing as the warmth spreads through him.

“Can’t argue there,” Aster relents.

And again a comfortable silence falls over them, punctuated by falling snow and the occasional sip of the coco. As he peers down at the drink held between their hands, Aster can’t help but think of times only a few month ago, where he craved for silence like this. Back then, Jack would always talk, as if filling the empty air with words would somehow buy him more time. Now though, the boy is content to remain quiet, and Aster doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t have the energy to break the silence, or if he’s simply realized that no amount of talking will help.

Aster is broken out of his thoughts when Jack nudges his shoulder, asking, “Do you have it?” 

Aster knows immediately what the boy means and confirms with a soft, “Yeah,” as he pulls a small notebook out of his coat pocket along with a simple pen. The blue notebook fits in his palm; its spine and corners are well worn from the notepad’s constant use. Jack can’t see the words inside anymore, but he has long since memorized the entire list, as has Aster. So he knows exactly where to skip to in the journal to find what he wants, but he doesn’t bother rushing, instead opening the cover and slowly going through the contents.

The first page contains only three words, written large in a bold, red pen and completely disregarding the lines on the paper.

_My_ _Bucket List_

A list of one hundred things Jack wants to do before he kicks the bucket. Back when Jack had showed this to him a little more than half a year ago, only a few were crossed out—maybe a little more than a quarter. Today, nearly the entire list is scratched out, and Aster can’t help but feel a bittersweet pride in thinking that he helped with so many of those.

He flips the page. On it is the list from one hundred to ninety-three. All of them are scratched out, as is the pattern on most of the first part of the list. Immediately number ninety-seven catches Aster’s eye. It’s crossed out in glittery blue ink, making the writing nearly impossible to see, but Aster knows what it says, and he smiles at the memory.

“‘Member 97?” He asks, and Jack smiles too.

“How can I not? Your face was hilarious,”

_Number ninety-seven: Kiss a stranger on New Years Day._

Aster had been at Time Square, minding his own business, watching the fireworks when all of the sudden this little brown haired twerp tapped him on the shoulder, grinned when he got his attention, and planted one on Aster’s lips. The boy had laughed while he sputtered and whisked off into the crowd, never to be seen again.

Only...it turned out that Fate wasn’t done with them yet; for only a week later Aster was invited to his old friend’s mansion to meet a long-lost nephew who would be staying with North and his wife Ana for a while.

And of course that mysterious nephew had been the twerp from New Years. And of course North wanted Aster to look out for the boy as much as possible since he was so busy with work. And of course Aster had grumped and groused, but in the end he had gone along with it, and the more he’d hung out with the boy, the more he’d come to realize that Jack was more than just pranks and jokes. He loved kids and loved life and he always had a smile for every situation, and he never let fear stop him and—

Well, somewhere along the way Aster had fallen in love with this kid, and to his happy surprise the feeling was mutual. At the time, he hadn’t known about Jack’s illness. He hadn’t known about the Bucket List. When he’d found out…

Aster shakes the thought from his mind and flips the page.

_Number eighty-five: Dye my hair._

And hadn’t Aster been shocked that day? Coming home after showing off his work at an art gallery to find Jack smiling at him, his hair bleached nearly titanium white.  _Like it_? Jack had asked, to which Aster replied by spluttering and asking _why_? Jack hadn’t answered, instead distracting him the best way he knew how.

Aster clears his throat and skips to the next page, his eyes alighting on one particular number on the list. At his distressed and frankly embarrassed keen, Jack speaks up, “We’re on seventy-six, then?”

_Number seventy-six: Go skydiving._

The event has been banished to the deepest, darkest corner of Aster’s head for months now, and he fully intends to keep it that way, but despite his best efforts, the memory trickles to the forefront of his mind.

Jack had known Aster can’t stand heights. To this day, neither are sure exactly how Jack had managed to convince him to get in the plane, not to mention jumping out of the damn thing! Jack had laughed in exhilaration the whole way down, and Aster...might have screamed or might have blacked out. Probably both. He still isn’t sure. The one thing he does know is that he spent the rest of the day with jelly legs practically unable to walk and having to support his not inconsiderable weight on the waifish Jack, who’d rolled his eyes and called Aster a “jumpy bunny.” He’d never lived that down since.

“Hey Bunny can you remember seventy-three?” Jack inadvertently interrupts Aster’s thoughts. They both shiver and stick their tongue out in unison at that particular memory.

_Number seventy-three: taste the world’s weirdest ice-cream._

Seriously, though, who decided that making ice cream flavored like live bird talons was a good idea? It’s not.

Quickly Aster flips to the next page and freezes when he spots number sixty-eight. It stands out amongst the others on the page simply because it is not crossed out. It isn’t one of the more memorable of the items on the list; it just happens to be the one they were working on when Aster had found out about the illness.

_Number sixty-eight: go on an Easter egg hunt with Emma_

Everything had been set up. The eggs had been hidden, Emma, Jack’s little sister, had arrived the night before by plane, and Aster had been forced into the role of Easter Bunny, _since he was such a jumpy bunny anyway_ , according to Jack, but just as they were about to begin, Jack had fallen to the floor, his body quivering in seizure. Aster had panicked, but everyone else, though worried, remained calm, called the hospital, and worked Jack through it. When Aster had figured out that this wasn’t a one time thing, and when Jack had—so hesitantly, truly scared for the first time—told him about being sick, about his impending death, about everything, Aster...hadn’t taken it well. He’d been hurt that Jack hadn’t told him, and he’d been frightened by the inevitability of loosing someone he’d grown so close to so quickly, and like he always did whenever he was hurt or frightened, Aster had shoved it down with anger, had yelled at the boy, and had walked out.   

Ana, bless her hyper-active little soul, had all but dragged Aster out of his condo and forced him and Jack into a room together nearly three days later. At that point, Jack was almost looking good-as-new, except for his heartbroken, and somewhat wary expression. Aster had broken down then, and confessed the fear he was feeling, and in turn Jack had revealed everything he’d been keeping secret, including the notebook and the prognosis that he would probably only live about a month longer. 

They’d made up and the next day Jack was back to his cheery self, telling Aster what was next to do on his list and how they could do it.

“Who has time to linger on the sad days?” He’d exclaimed while he led Aster to the world’s largest Ferris Wheel, “There’s so much to do and so little time to do it!”

Aster’s regretfulness must be tangible because Jack slips his fingers over the notebook and flips the pages one-by-one until he gets to the one they were originally looking for.

_Number twenty-three: survive to see first snow fall of the year_

“Well,” Jack supplies, “I mean, technically I didn’t _see_ it but it’s close enough, right?”

“Yeah, course it is,” Aster replies, throat thick as he uncaps the pen, placing it in Jacks hand and guiding the boy in crossing the number out. It’s an anti-climatic affair. Jack merely replaces his hand on the cup—now only lukewarm—as Aster puts the pen away. He hesitates then. Usually, he’d put the journal back as well. Lately, he’s taken to looking at it as little as possible. He knows what’s on the list, and he knows which ones haven’t been crossed out yet, and he doesn’t like seeing them because it reminds him that he won’t be able to strike them through. Yet, he can’t bring himself to slam the notebook shut and hide it away today.

It takes a real physical effort to turn the page and read on, but Aster does it anyway, feeling like he needs to finish this. He’s on the second to last page; it lists numbers eighteen through nine, and only about half have been stricken through. Of course, with what some of the items are, Aster had never expected them to be crossed out, and neither, he suspects, did Jack. It is a testament to the boy’s enduring hope that he even wrote them down.

_Number sixteen: become a teacher._

_Number thirteen: get a degree._

_Number nine: attend Emma’s wedding._

Aster turns the page, and his breath catches. Nothing on this page has the privilege of being crossed out, but he doesn’t pay that any mind. His attention is on the final item on the list. The original number one had been scribbled through and replaced in shaky, barely legible writing.

_Number one: kiss Aster on New Year's Day_

“Jack,” Aster breaths, not sure what to say. 

“Do you think I’ll make it?” Jack asks in the silence, voice soft, unsure.

New Years is nearly a month and a half away. Pitch and the other doctors don’t expect Jack to survive _this_ month. 

Aster drops the book and mug, wrapping his arms around Jack and pulling him close. The boy is shivering, and Aster is sure the cold has little to do with it, “Ya will, mate. I know ya will. I swear it. Ya made it this far, haven’t ya?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies, but Aster can hear the doubt in his voice as he (weakly, oh so weakly) clutches at the older man’s jacket, “I, Aster I,” the boy sobs, and Aster has to blink back his own tears because he knows what Jack is about to say and he can’t hear it. He can’t hear it because the only reason he can keep himself together through this is because of Jack’s own acceptance, and it’s a selfish thought, but it’s true, and if Jack confirms it out loud what will Aster do? What can he possibly—

_“I don’t want to die_ ,” The boy chokes out, voice breaking on the last word as they both curl into each other, hiding Jack away from reality and fate and death, hoping against all hope that that will be enough.

It’s not, but it’s all they can do. Hope, and never let go.

* * *

 Aster is alone.

The ceremony was three days ago, and everyone else has long gone home. Aster keeps coming back though, spending nearly all day standing before the grave. He really doesn’t know what he expected. He’d known this day would come. Oh, he’d hoped, but—

—but, well, when it came down to it, hope could only get a person so far.

So now Aster stands at the foot of a freshly laid grave. Really, he supposes he expected to cry more, but his cheeks are dry. He thinks he more than made up for it in the past month though. It’s different, he thinks, watching death slowly consume a person than having death come suddenly. He realizes now that he’d been morning for Jack since long before the boy actually died. He regrets it now: all his memories are tainted with that bitter sadness that is currently making his heart feel like a piece of lead.

He collapses to the ground, the freshly fallen snow exploding around him before settling once more. What is he supposed to do now? He’d only known Jack for a year, but the boy had brought so much joy and adventure to his life. What had he done before? Paint, paint paint. Stay up in his studio alone. Occasionally visit his friends. That was no life. Jack is—was Aster’s life, and now that he is gone…

Aster starts when he feels something cover his shoulders, and quickly discovers that a thick blanket has been draped over him. Confused, he watches as Pitch walks to the grave, placing one of the two steaming cups he’s holding down there. Standing back up, he walks back over to Aster, where he proceeds to down the contents of the other cup.

“Oy!” Aster shouts, standing up and shrugging off the blanket. He is getting really sick and tired of Pitch teasing him like that. How dare he have the nerve to do that today of all days, “What about me? I think I deserve some at this point!”

“You,” Pitch cuts in sharply, glaring at him over the rim of his cup, “are a perfectly functioning person who can get your own cup of coffee if you damn well want one. Don’t sit there and expect everyone to do everything for you,” Aster sucks in a sharp breath, feeling as if he’d just been punched as Pitch begins walking away. Aster takes a moment to let the statement—obviously about more than just coffee— sink in. Pitch has been telling him that the whole time, hasn’t he? This last year, Aster and Jack stuck so close together, that he clear forgot he could do things on his own.

Picking up the blanket, Aster turns toward the retreating man, but before he can say anything, Pitch waves and exclaims, “Oh, and Ana’s been driving me crazy worrying about you. Hurry up and tell them you’re okay so I can finish packing in peace, you stupid rabbit.

Aster opens his mouth to reply, but merely chuckles instead before shouting, “Jackie was right! Yer not such a bad bloke after all!” Pitch shoots him a sharp look, but doesn’t deign to reply as he gets in his car and drives away.

Turning back to the grave, Aster finds it in himself to smile for the first time since Jack’s death. It’s wobbly and barely there, but it’s something. He nods to the grave and affirms, “Ya made it Jackie, and I—I’m gonna make it too. Just ya watch,”

With that, he withdraws a small, blue, well-worn notebook from his coat pocket and places it next to the cup of hot chocolate.

* * *

 As Aster walks away, a small gust of wind just strong enough to open the journal blows through the clearing. The pages sweep and flip about until finally they settle on the last page of the Bucket List. On that page, only one item is crossed out. 

A picture slides out from between the pages. It is the last picture taken of a living Jackson Overland Frost and it depicts him happily kissing one Edward Aster Mund on the nose just as the last of the New Year’s fireworks lights up the night sky.

 As Aster said: Jack had made it.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written in response to a DW rotg-kink meme prompt. Unfortunately, I cannot find said prompt at this time. If any of you happen to know the location of a prompt having to do with a Jackrabbit Bucket List, I would very much appreciate it if you could leave me a note in the comments letting me know.
> 
> This wasn't beta'd. I hope it's not too bad, and I hope it doesn't have too many errors. If you'd like, drop a comment telling me what you thought about it.
> 
> ~Saka out.


End file.
